Ace of Hearts and Ace of Spades : An Aomine x Kise One-Shot Collection
by Penumbrael
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring and centred around Aomine and Kise and the many possible facets of their relationship. Set in multiple timelines, scenarios and lacking chronological order. MxM/Yaoi/BL/Smut/Fluff/Hurt/Comfort/Drama/etc. Updated weekly.
1. 1st Q: Sweatpants

A series of one-shots featuring and centred around Aomine and Kise and the many possible facets of their relationship. These chapters are by no means all set in the same universe, timeline or to be read in chronological order and I expect to add a new one-shot every week. They will vary in length, thematic, intensity, smuttiness and genre, ranging from lighthearted fluff to dark angst depending on whatever scenario pops into my head for the pairing to appear in. That being said, this collection of short stories is and always will be rated M for a multitude of reasons, the most prominent of which is the varying degrees of explicit smut, strong language and adult themes so consider yourselves warned.  
Now, to start off, something delightfully fluffy.

* * *

1st Q: Sweatpants

Or: _In which Kise has a photo shoot and Aomine decides to tag along wearing questionable legwear._

* * *

Instinctively and without much direction from the many people surrounding him, Kise moved in front of the camera. Years of experience along with a natural sense for the job had him moving automatically, striking just the right pose in just the right moment, shifting his glance right when it was needed, adjusting his expression to fit the requested mood on command. And thus his thoughts were free to stray to different things. Not to the soft, tailored fabrics clothing his lean frame or the smell of hairspray or the blindingly bright lights. To something that had absolutely nothing to do with either the job or the product he was showcasing. Instead, the blond man's thoughts lingered on a much more pleasing matter. On the piercing set of blue eyes that he could feel peeling the designer clothes off his body from across the room and the tall, dark figure to whom they belonged. Never before had he brought anyone along to a shooting and the younger, taller male had never voiced an interest in going. Not because the model was ashamed of his job or, as he knew, because his mercurial lover did not care enough to take an interest, but simply because opportunity had never presented itself. Their shared passions were different ones, basketball chief among them. And yet, there he was. Leaning against the back wall of the studio, unnoticed by most people present, Aomine Daiki was watching, an unreadable expression on his features and his talented hands buried in the pockets of black sweatpants. And despite all the silks, cashmeres and elegant cuts of fabrics that currently made the blond the best dressed man in the room, there was no doubt in his mind: there was nothing hotter on the face of the earth than Aominecchi in sweatpants and trainers.

For a moment, a split second, the blond miracle's camera-ready grin turned into a loving smile meant only for the guarded eyes of his fellow prodigy. How could he not smile, when the irony of the situation presented itself so openly to his thoughts? How could he keep a straight face when, instead of the models waiting in the lounge off set, he could imagine nothing more seductive than the tall, leanly muscled stature of his friend turned lover wearing an outfit that would have most designers in a hissy-fit? No pressed dress pants, no crisp, white shirt, no fashionable jacket or tie. Instead, there were sneakers, black sweatpants, a white v-neck shirt, a charcoal hooded jacket and a grey beanie covering messy hair. The kind of clothing that one wore on long shuttle rides to basketball games, on the way to the gym or to practice (from which the blue haired male was notoriously and perpetually absent) or when lounging at home. Not the sort of outfit that one wore to fashion shootings, as Kise had tried and failed to explain to the hotheaded jerk who now, simply by cocking a navy eyebrow challengingly, threatened to end all logical thought in the blond model's head. Sighing inwardly, he fought the urge to shake his head in disbelief and instead remembered the conversation centred around those sweatpants that now clung to his lover's hips.

„Aominecchi...?"  
„Uh-uh...?"  
„Those are sweatpants."  
„No shit. Your point being?"  
„Err...That you're not wearing sweatpants to a fashion shoot."  
„True. I'm wearing sweatpants to the park where I will pound your ass into the ground after the shoot, the centre of attention of which, ironically, is also your ass and not mine." A mixture of annoyance and amusement inspired by the very obvious double entendre lend it self to Aomine's deep voice.  
„But...they're sweatpants...why sweatpants?"  
Sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, freshly showered and dressed to the nines in flattering, grey jeans and a trendy, blue shirt with a graphic print, Kise eyed his still very naked boyfriend with a mixture of adoration and hatred for the disputed garment in his hand.  
„Because they were the first thing that my hand touched when I reached into the drawer. They're clean, they fit and that's all there is to it. So what the hell is your problem, Kise?"  
„It's just so typical," the blond whined, burying his face in his hands to hide his frustration and block out the distracting image of naked, tan skin over taut muscle, „here I finally get to take you to work with me and then you go and decide to ruin it by looking like..."  
His melodramatic wailing was suddenly interrupted when his hands were pulled from his head and in one swift motion, pinned above his head as he was pushed onto his back, straddled by the blue-haired force of nature who, apparently, had enough of the discussion already.  
„Finish your sentence, I dare you," a husky voice challenged, somewhere much too close to his ear and Kise gulped, his heartbeat instantly picking up the pace and his breath hitching in his throat. Warm lips ghosted across his neck and left a trail of fire in their wake, earning their owner a strangled moan and releasing a dark chuckle in return.

„Ah...I...Uh!...No fair...Ao...mi...ne..cchi..."  
„Never been fair...never will be," Aomine murmured, shifting the wrists of his all too willing prisoner into one hand before running his fingers over the hard, lean muscle underneath pale skin. Another moan, halfway between a gasp and a sigh, left the blond's throat as he struggled to hold on to his righteous frustration.  
„Now, here's what's gonna happen, okay? First, I'm gonna fuck that defiant frown off that pretty face of yours. Then, once we're done, I'm gonna get dressed, we're gonna go to that shoot of yours, you're gonna buy me lunch and then we're gonna go down to the court with Tetsu and that idiot boyfriend of his and play a couple of baskets. And you're gonna shut up about my sweatpants and like it, damnit."  
Between the low growl in which the words reached the silenced small forward's ear and the hot trail of increasingly teasing kisses that the taller male placed down across his collar bone, Kise was temped to acquiesce, as he always did, to the uncompromising demands of his dominant paramour. But the stubborn streak, that was as much of a defining feature of his personality as his perpetually sunny mood and gentle disposition, allowed for no such show of weakness and so he refused the answer that he knew the blue-haired animal above him to crave. Instead, he looked up, a rebellious glint in his amber eyes, an unspoken challenge. Midnight blue gleamed dangerously and had they been strangers and stood on opposite sides of a basketball court, Kise would have been awestruck and afraid. But right then and there, pinned safely underneath the hardened, warm-blooded body of the man he knew better than anyone else, all he felt was excitement and gradually fading frustration, hiding away until coherent thought was appropriate once more.  
Then, the hand that had held his wrists fell away and instantaneously, the blond tangled his fingers in the short strands of navy hair that crowned his assertive lover's head. Aomine then made good on his promise, sliding in between the jeans-clad legs of his pouting play mate and proceeding to to all the things that he had learned would reduce the typically confident copycat to a moaning bundle of lust and make him come apart.

Half an hour later, panting and still coming down from the high that had both of their hearts pounding against their rib cages, Kise watched his lover rise, a glistening layer of sweat coating every inch of the tan skin. Running a hand through his tousled, blond locks, he shut his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the first thing that he saw was the retreating form of the miracle ace disappearing into the bathroom for the second shower of the day. And when they left the apartment a short while later, a soft smile lay on Kise's lips as he stole a glance at Aomine's form to his right. He was wearing sweatpants.


	2. 2nd Q: Sunday Morning Blues

2nd Q: Sunday Morning Blues

Or: _In which Kise and Aomine bask in morning afterglow, Kise sings and Aomine pretends to hate it._

* * *

A tranquil silence filled the dorm room like the sunlight that pushed in through the slits of drawn curtains. Two bodies lay intertwined comfortably on the bed, the sun-kissed skin of one exposed while the pale complexion of the other hid under the shared duvet, basking in warmth and afterglow. Sunday mornings were lazy affairs, neither blond nor cobalt all too willing to leave the magical space created whenever they graced the sheets simultaneously.

Breathing evenly, eyes closed, Aomine lay on his back, head resting on folded arms while a mess of tangled blond locks bedded themselves on his chest, his curious fingers tracing along his lover's side while said young man drew intricate patterns in invisible touches on his own torso. Neither spoke, both content to simply co-exist for another moment. They were rare, their silences, usually forced into non-existence by a flood of ideas expressed in a soft tenor and mumbled responses in lower registers. As they lay there no words were needed. And still, as it always was, silence was doomed to end.

A strange sound mixed into the soft breathing that tickled his skin, not quite a whisper, not quite a murmur and blue eyes fluttered open to investigate. They found nothing but the gold crowned head of the older male, his features hidden from view. And though they searched on, nothing hinted at the origin of the sound that was foreign to his ears but that grew louder and more consistent with every fleeting second.  
„ _...Sunday morning, rain is falling...steal some covers, share some skin..._ "  
Ultramarine eyebrows shot up and breath hitched in unsuspecting throat as realization struck.  
The hum was hardly more than a whisper, a melody sung softly by a voice still addled with happy exhaustion and yet it was, without a doubt the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He listened, silently, a small smile breaking onto perpetually serious lips.

„ _...come and rest your bones with me...driving slow on Sunday morning...and I never want to leave..._ "  
His fingers halted their excursion across pristine skin, mindlessly forgetting their actions as Daiki paid all mind to the strangled tune that fell off-beat from the blond's lips and just as suddenly, the song found it's premature end. Silken strands moved as the interrupted singer lifted his head, inquisitively glancing up at the amused single audience, eyebrows raised.  
„Why'd you stop," Kise complained, a pout settling on his mouth as though his lover had committed a criminal offense in halting his caresses.  
Instead of answering the accusatory tone, the taller male simply ran his fingers up the sculpted back of the lean body on his and shook his head.  
„Cause your singing sucks," he replied softly. There was not an ounce of truth to his words.  
„Aominecchi is mean!" No bite to his lover's harsh words either. They could have been a confession of eternal love for all the gentleness in the blond's timbre.  
„Oh poor baby" he replied, equally sweetly, laughing darkly before rolling them both over, leaning over the slender frame of the impromptu singer, stealing a kiss and slipping from the bed in one fluent motion.

Two minutes later, a strangled sound escaped the bathroom, deep and rumbling like a cat's purr and thunder.  
„ _...driving slow on Sunday morning..._ "  
Kise smiled.

* * *

A/N: Slow, sweet, inspired by Maroon 5's 'Sunday Morning'.


	3. 3rd Q: Bad Habits

3rd Q: Bad Habits

Or: _In which Kise has a cigarette for breakfast and Aomine disapproves._

* * *

A clicking sound, a flame springing to life and dying the second after. Blue smoke rose rose into the air, dancing a slow dance from their place of origin: a lit cigarette caught between long, slender Fingers. The smell, a mixture of menthol and tobacco mixed with the morning staple of black coffee, freshly brewed and invigorating in a yellow mug on the small table at which the smoker was seated in tranquil morning glory. Another drag, another inhale, another exhale – a wave of swirling smoke bursting from rosy lips in a pretty face, joining the steadily growing cloud of previous breaths in the kitchen. The blond man, dressed in a white button-down shirt and grey dress pants, paid the lack of oxygen no mind, absentmindedly staring out the window, mentally already working. Another drag, the cloud grew ever larger. The bitter taste of coffee mingled with the menthol staleness on his tongue and he struggled to remember when he'd last eaten breakfast. Proper breakfast, not a fag and a cuppa to chase away exhaustion and cravings that he had no patience or mind to satisfy. A golden-eyed glance around the flat, the home he shared with the one man who understood his wandering mind. The blue-haired menace had left early, long before he'd gotten up. A morning run, like every day, the model turned basketball pro thought to himself, uttering a melodic chuckle at the paradoxical thought. It was equally impossible to force the overly confident ace to attend team practice as it was to convince him to skip his everyday cardio. Why, no one but he would ever know.

Another inhale, exhale. By now the smoke was so thick in the air that it burned his eyes and yet the blond made no move to crush the butt of the half smoked cigarette into the ashtray and end his guilty moment.  
He had no illusions when it came to his ugly addiction or just how utterly destructive it was and yet it had become a constant, a habit that he just couldn't shake. Another drag, another exhale then, he tasted filter, grimacing and flicking the end into the black ashtray, he rose, leaving the smoldering ash to breathe it's last toxic breaths. The last bit of coffee tasted bitter and washed away the even less pleasant taste of charred paper before Kise dumped the mug into the sink to be washed later. A look at the wall clock warned him of his lateness and he ran a hand through his golden strands of silken hair before freezing instantly as a key turned in the door. He spun around, a smile breaking onto his features as a mumbled greeting reached his ear and a tall, tan figure popped into view. The smoke still lingered in the air and it was impossible not to notice the disgust on the younger man's face as he approached his blond lover, beads of sweat coating his arms and forehead like witnesses attesting to his exertion.

"You're a fucking idiot, you know that?"  
No loving embrace or smile to answer his own, Kise sighed and rolled his eyes. How many times had they argued over his habit? He'd stopped counting.  
"I know. But you love me anyway," he replied, a confident, provocative grin replacing the happy smile.  
"Whatever," the runner answered and pulled him into a hug, dropping all pretenses of gentleness in favour of a harsh bite grazing the pierced ear of the model.  
"You reek," Kise whined, pushing away the taller, larger male with a semi-disgusted expression on his face that was met with open enmity by his partner.  
"No shit. I just ran ten miles. And you don't smell too good yourself, though it might be that cloud of smoke that you insist on cloaking yourself in. I swear to God if the smoking doesn't kill you, I will," Aomine's deep voice sighed before the blue-haired male glanced at the clock and back at the smoker in question. "You'll be late."  
"I'm leaving, I'm leaving, no worries. And about the smoking...I'm older than you, I can take care of myself, Aominecchi," the blond replied, reaching for his jacket and keys on the table, earning a sarcastic laugh in reply to his cocky statement.  
"Yeah..right," the bluenette snorted before finally shaking his head in defeat and producing a brown paper bag which he thrust into his lover's hands.  
"Now get your ass in gear," he murmured, placing a chaste kiss on Kise's forehead and disappearing into the bathroom.  
A peek into the bag revealed a blueberry muffin, an apple and a bottle of orange juice. He smiled.  
Then he reached for his jacket, pulling it on before leaving the apartment, the breakfast bag in hand. Safely outside, his hand slipped into the breast pocket of the coat to find emptiness where his spare pack of cigarettes should have been. His fingers touched paper and with a mixture of annoyance and surprise he pulled out a post it note with a signature messy scrawl that he knew as well as his own.

 _Quit or I will kill you before the smoking has a chance to. And eat your damn breakfast you lousy excuse for an adult...  
...Love you._

Reaching into his jeans and fishing out a single menthol scented cylinder he sighed.  
Just one last cigarette. And then he was quitting, for good this time. Light, inhale, exhale, guilt. And then he ate the muffin, feeling guilty for the way the tobacco and sweetness didn't mix.

* * *

A/N: Bad habits die hard. And as always, I love reviews.


	4. 4th Q: Crawling Home To You

4th Q: Crawling Home To You

Or: _In which Aomine comes home utterly and completely wasted in an effort to drown his jealousy and Kise welcomes him._

* * *

„You're drunk."  
Golden eyes watched with cool apprehension as a tall, stumbling mess of a man leaned against the door that it had cost him way too much effort to close. Eyes betrayed nothing, neither disgust or anger as they looked up, the outlines of a familiar figure elusive against the dark backdrop of their home. There was no mistaking the hazy look through his blood-shot eyes for that of a sober man; too clouded were the blue irises with whatever emotion their owner had tried to drown as he stared at the composed silhouette across the room. Silence filled the air between them, the blond male crossing his arms across his chest as he waited for his blue-haired counterpart to reply to the statement. Too many times had they repeated this scenario for him to be a novice actor in the depressing play. Too often had they danced this very dance for him to forget the steps, the twists, the turns. And so Kise waited, an unreadable expression on his handsome features.

„Fuck off." Daiki's speech was slurred, his voice hoarse and husky thanks to the many cigarettes that he hadn't smoked but been forced to tolerate as shot after shot of burning liquor ran down his throat.  
He couldn't remember how many there had been or when he'd decided to stop but one memory was as clear as ice cold vodka in his mind as he stared back at his long-time lover through the inebriated lens of his stupor. The image of feminine hands tangled in golden hair, red painted lips parted in lust-filled abandon and the lean frame he knew so intimately pressed against supple curves was alive his mind, adding itself to his catalogue of unforgotten slights of it's own accord. Every second of the sickening scene was etched into memory and nurturing volatile jealousy in his chest every time it thrust itself into view on the silver screen. He'd known about it, of course he had. And what was worse, he'd approved of the idea when they had spoken about it. About the commercial, the scene and, of course, the opportunity. How lucrative the job had been and how well it would do and how insanely good it would look on his lover's resume. And he had been fine. He'd been perfectly dandy with the idea of some girl plastering herself all over Kise for professional purposes. He'd even joked about how she was blissfully ignorant of her acting partner's preferences and made crude remarks about the things, given the opportunity, he himself could have done to ruin the poor woman for all men to come. He'd been fine all through the process, from the first script to the day the blond wrapped the shooting. And then he had been miserable and silent.

„Care to tell me why you're this shit-faced on a Thursday night and why you didn't bother answering any of my, let's see, nineteen calls? Because I would really like to know,"  
It was exceptionally rare for his lover to omit the ridiculous title he had imposed upon him, that verbal sign of respect that typically made his lips twist into a cocky smile whenever he heard it. The omission was an obvious jab at the pitiful state in which the taller male currently found himself and it made him feel even more like shit than innumerable shots of alcohol and raging jealousy ever could. A dangerous glint mixed in with the thick fog swirling his pupils as he caught his boyfriend's golden glare, thinking for what must be the thousandth time, that the whole world had the wrong idea. That despite his cheery smile and childish attitude, it was Kise who posed the real he was the one that people should be weary of. Not his own hot-tempered scorn or his taunting arrogance but the deceptively sweet and innocent flirtations of the picturesque blond who hid his capabilities behind a porcelain smile.  
With slow, long strides Aomine crossed the room, eyes burning bright with jealousy and vicious anger and desperate misery mixed in with equally fervent passion and exasperation.  
Wordlessly he halted his drunken stumble inches from his slightly shorter lover, looking down at the lean, impeccably dressed frame perched on the armrest of their charcoal couch.  
„What do you care?" he replied, his voice barely louder than a whisper and filled with as much venom as he could muster while the ridiculously tolerant features of his favourite face taunted him further with their calm serenity. Again.

„Humour me," the soft tenor replied, earning a low, primal growl in response. It was all his fault. It always was. But the accusations refused to leave the tan lips of the ethanol-stupefied male, struggling to keep his temper in check when all he wanted to do was to make Kise pay. Make him regret ever touching that girl, no matter if it was for work and perfectly aligned with a script written by other people. Make him moan and sigh and cry out his name as he reminded him just what jealousy did to his possessive nature and just how livid he was. And just how much he wanted that look, that golden smoulder to be his and his alone.  
„You liked it."  
There, the essence of the problem, vocalised in the shortest way possible in a slurred baritone. Not the touches, not the screen-kiss, not the fact that the blond had done as asked by a producer surrounded by a camera crew. But the way his features had lit up, his golden eyes burning with that seductive passion that he had given in to so many times and the way they had burned into the docile brunette actress like she was the only one lucky enough to ever witness such a sight. That was the image that conjured up bouts of nausea in the cobalt-crowned drunk, the idea that made his chest feel tight, that made it hard to breathe without biting his chapped lips to keep from screaming. That look, that hazy, husky smoulder was _his_. His alone.

„I liked what?"  
The question was too innocent, too honest and way too angelic and it caught Aomine utterly unaware, fuelling another bout of self-righteous rage.  
„Don't," he grit out between clenched teeth, closing the distance between them and feeling reluctant arms snaking around his waist, out of habit, as somewhere in his alcohol-addled mind he had known that they would. Because they always did.  
„Tell me," the uncharacteristically stern voice of the man who was typically a ball of sunshine and rainbows demanded and Aomine swallowed the barrage of insults that popped into his head.  
„Her, you liked her. It was all over your face. That ridiculously pretty face."

The ethanol in his veins waved goodbye to his retreating sense of reason and he growled, reaching up to fist a hand in the perfectly combed strands of liquid gold that had looked so wrong in _her_ much too feminine fingers.

A sharp hiss at the harsh tug left the blond's lips and he looked up at his lover who looked to be inches from tumbling over the edge and throwing all borrowed composure to the wind in favour of something hotheaded and possibly violent.

He understood the reasoning behind the alcohol that mixed with the familiar scent of his blue-haired partner and the cause for the inarticulate anger that made his muscular frame tremble.  
And a veteran in dealing with the possessive temper tantrums that appeared on the stage of their relationship every so often, he already knew how the night was going to end. It always did play out the same and he was fine with every bit of it, knowing just how badly the younger male sucked at dealing with the things that he did and enjoyed doing for his job. They had talked about it more times than he cared to count, his laid-back attitude clashing horribly with the painfully possessive nature of his teenage friend turned boyfriend turned rock when times were hard. Thus there was no need for him to voice half-hearted regrets or pretend to be sorry for enjoying what had actually been a delightful shoot with a very talented partner. Doing so meant betraying himself to a man who wouldn't believe him anyway and thus, Kise remained silent on the matter, comforting his lover with open arms instead of fake apologies.

„So you decided to drown your misplaced jealousy in a bottle?"  
He received no answer in words. Instead warm, liquor-tainted lips crashed against his own, forcefully expression what Aomine's voice could not. The kiss tasted of vodka and smoke and felt like fire, scorching away any and all remnants of imaginary lipstick that the model knew his assailant to imagine still tinting his lips. No sweet caress like their Sunday morning kisses or the playful taunts that typically preceded their lovemaking. Instead there was urging, demanding, devouring and unadulterated need, a heady mixture that never ceased to make his head spin. Snaking his nifty, sober fingers under the hem of the messily tucked shirt that covered sun-kissed skin, he closed his amber eyes and pushed himself against the larger frame of his jealous lover. This would never change. He'd enjoy his work a little to much, act a little too well and then Aominecchi would go ballistic after trying his damnedest not to. Six years and yet the dance never changed nor did the dancers. And if their track record was anything to go by, they never would. He'd flirt, he'd love the attention, Aomine would joke about it, mostly being fine with it all until something went too far and then they'd end up right where they were, settling an argument that wasn't really an argument but acceptance of an age-old coping mechanism. And selfish as he was, he never wanted it to change. In the end he always came home to blue eyes and rude jokes and cheeky smiles and kisses that scorched his skin.

Aomine growled against the sweet lips when the nimble fingers that knew each and every one of his sweet spots began their excursion across his back, tracing soothing circles on his skin. It did little to placate the animalistic urges that demanded satisfaction in the typically lethargic man and instead poured oil onto raging flames. One quick motion rendered a little less fluent by the copious amounts of alcohol in his system and suddenly long legs were wrapped around his waist, the leanly muscled frame of his seductive lover pinned between his own tall stature and the living room wall.  
„You really need to stop doing this to yourself you idiot," Kise managed to say, breathing shallow breaths between mewling moans every time forceful hips ground against his own. "It'll kill you someday. Besides, I always do come home to you, no matter how much I enjoy random actresses."  
„Fuck you," Aomine growled, unable to suppress all of the conflicting emotions that warred in his chest.  
„Yes,I'm sure you will."  
And sure enough, five minutes later it wasn't the already forgotten name of a brunette woman that rung true in the darkness, moaned and screamed in abandon and whispered into pillows by trembling lips. And with every repetition of the five syllables that were his rightful title, blue eyes softened and anger died as jealousy retreated...for now.

* * *

A/N: Jealousy goes with this ship like coconut goes with pineapple. Inspired by Arctic Monkey's 'Do I Wanna Know'.


End file.
